Thieves I've Known

by Tom Kealey

  Maybe the creek, he thinks, but not likely. If a raindrop fell in that creek it might travel south to a larger stream, and a river after that, might find its way to where three rivers meet, might choose the smallest of the three and turn eastward, rolling over rocks, fish, hollow reeds and old tires, rats. Might be observed from a rooftop by a boy near Winston’s age. But Winston doesn’t think of this. He thinks of the snake his grandfather had caught at the creek, had pinched it near the back of the head, lifted it from the mud, showed Winston how to hold it, watched as it crawled up the arm of his grandson, had seen the fear and the delight in the boy’s face.

  But they pass the turnoff for the creek, and soon after, they pass the carnival. Winston’s eyes follow the Ferris wheel as it rises above them, a hundred yards from the shoulder of the road. The older Winston follows his grandson’s gaze, watches the lights of the Ferris wheel in the rearview mirror. He has a clarity of thought for a change: that would’ve been a good place to stop. He has no idea where he is going, recognizes this fact, and in recognizing it, knows that he has come through the fog of his own thoughts which, God knows, he’s been trying to come through for the past week.

  But even as he keeps his eyes on the road, edges the steering wheel to the right, he keeps the picture of his grandson in his mind. The boy’s father had considered him a halfwit. The word had bothered the older Winston. He’d seen it hang in the air like a weight, had thought he might keep it from settling around the boy’s neck. On the days when the father worked, the old man had taught the boy how to drive the tractor in the fields of his neighbor’s yard. The boy was tall for his age. His feet could touch the pedals if he sat forward. The old man thought he might teach the boy a trade. Farming took not great thoughts, but a focus that he was certain the boy had. He’d taught him how to bale hay and how to lead the cows in to milk, how to hook up the machines. He’d taught him how to catch a snake—that was for fun—and earlier still, years before, how to tie his shoes and how to read. He thought he might be teaching him something here, in the truck, had started the old clunker with that in mind, in his fogged mind, but what that was he was not now sure.

  On the windshield the reflection of the carnival lights dim, and another set of lights shines brighter. Blue lights. The old man checks his mirror and sees the sheriff’s cruiser closing the distance on the highway.

  God dammit, he says.

  Hey, says the younger Winston. That’s your mouth.

  The old man neither stops nor speeds up. The cruiser rides close to his bumper, and the lights glow strong against the windshield. The deputy switches on his siren, follows close, and when, after a minute—two minutes—have passed, calls in to the switchboard for backup. On a straightaway, he moves the cruiser to the left lane, comes even with the truck. Beyond them, down the highway, Winston can see the same glow he’d seen from the farmhouse. Not the carnival, and not even now the lights of the sheriff’s cruiser, but a glow greater than any of those things, as bright as the moon, even at this distance. It burns orange against the skyline.

  The deputy, now ten minutes past his shift, had taken the call because it was an easy one: an old man and a boy in a truck, to be pulled over and returned to a farmhouse five miles back. The deputy has a boy of his own, is a first-time father, had seen his boy walk two days before, had caught him as he fell, had been thinking about that as he called in for backup. He pulls level with the truck, in the opposite lane. They’re not moving very fast. He smiles at the old man. Doesn’t see any reason to be rude, had not been raised that way. He points to the side of the road.

  The old man looks at this deputy. The man looks like a boy himself. The older Winston takes in the smile. Takes it for a cockiness that the deputy had not intended. The old man raises his right hand and extends his middle finger. Next to him, his grandson—a bit of a prude when it comes to language—likes that. The old man can hear the boy’s laugh.

  You do it, he says.

  No way, says Winston.

  The deputy loses the smile and sets his foot against the brake. Ahead, he can see a long line of cars, blocking the road in both directions, stretching toward an orange glow in the distance, bright as the moon. He seems to register this—the deputy does—thinks he might see the source of the glow and hopes he will not. Thinks of his son again, and then of the boy in the truck. He presses down on his brake and gives the old man some room.

  Slipping is avoiding a blow by moving to the side, a counterpunch follows to the right if she moves to the right. A left from the left. A duck is a bend to escape an opponent’s blow. The hands are held in punching position so she might retaliate as soon as the opponent’s arm passes over her head.

  Helen tapes her hands, makes fists as she sits on the sink in the kitchen, watches the shadow of her hands against the floor. Outside, she ties the punching bag to the largest low branch of the spruce pine, fifty yards from her house. She warms up, counts to four hundred on the bag, her fists working from memory. She watches her white breath in the air. She hits the bag like it was made of glass, hits it solid and light, hits it on the backswing so as not to break it. Years from now, will she stand on a corner at two in the morning, waiting for someone who never shows up? She thinks this at around three hundred. Wonders who that person might be. She sees the portholes and hatches of the ferryboat, feels the warmth of the bourbon slide down her throat, just a nip—Mrs. Lange’s word—try it if you like it. She hadn’t liked it at the time, but likes it now, doesn’t taste the bitterness or the sting while punching at the bag. It warms her: the memory, the taste, and the movement around the tree.

  Helen reaches four hundred, stops and moves to the other side of the bag, moves beyond glass, thinks of the bag as rubber, bouncing back, bouncing faster the harder she hits it, if she keeps the right rhythm. She thinks of her trainer. Then, tries to think of the ferryboat instead of him. He’s twice and a half her age. He’s ugly. She’d like to break his nose. Thinks that she might slip in one day, with practice, with repetition, with guile and deceit, and smack him a good one. She smacks the bag a good one and loses the rhythm, tries to get it back, fails. She stops the bag and starts again. The uppercut is a blow delivered with either hand and in close quarters. The boxer finds this blow most effective against an opponent boxing in a crouching position.

  Omar crouches like a boxer, as if he’s waiting for the blow to come, waiting for his chance to cross or jab, but he crouches for neither of those reasons. He holds the weight of his mother, half her weight. Even with her skin and bones, she is still heavier than him. He’s a small boy. A squeak next to Winston, if they’d ever stand together, he’s not as solid or defined as Helen. He holds his mother’s weight up in the rain and sleet with his legs pressed with each step against the sidewalk. He accounts for a slip with each step, although he never falters, not any time between the apartment buildings, eight blocks. He keeps her talking, keeps her awake, lets her take her weight back, takes it on again.

  I rode that bike down that hill, you remember, she says.

  Omar doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

  My mother said we’d go biking, and I used to fly. There was a group of boys, and when they saw me come by, one of them said, “That girl is too fast, we’re going to have to cut her down.” And I was like, that’s right, cause I’m like a fast speed.

  Okay, says Omar. I hear you. He wipes the rain from his eyes. They didn’t catch you, did they?

  Oh, they caught me.

  C’mon Mama.

  All right, she says. They’re still chasing me. We better hurry up.

  Omar looks ahead in the sleet and rain. They’ve got a long way to go yet. He takes on the weight. I won’t let them get you tonight, he says.

  They’re off the road—Winston and his grandfather—they broke a fence and carved up a farmer’s barren cornfield with the bald tires of the truck. If it had been before harvest, the older Winston would have stopped the truck. He’s thinking smart now, wants to keep in motion. The
sheriff’s cruiser follows behind them, through the field; a scarecrow is run down, falls in the glow of the blue lights. The deputy switches on his wipers to get the straw off his windshield. Winston—the older one—sees the scarecrow fall in his rearview mirror, thinks about how someone had stuffed the old shirt and pants, painted the face, maybe a mother and her kids. He doesn’t think much of the deputy for knocking it over. He—Winston—is senile and dying, and even he’d thought to turn the wheel.

  The younger Winston thinks this is great fun. Better than the spook ride and the Ferris wheel put together and then some. Yet he knows, can feel in his bones, that they’d paid no admission price, that they’ll pay a price at the end of this ride instead. He wants this ride to go on and on, so that they won’t have to pay. He feels that his grandfather will pay a large price, and yet he senses that he—the younger Winston—himself will pay longer. Will not lose his seven and a half dollars, but will lose something else when the ride ends. It’s like driving the tractor—don’t tell your father, the old man had said—and he feels this same dread, this same delight, as they come clear of the fields. Winston looks back now through the window at the blue lights of the sheriff’s cruiser, and farther still, the orange glow a mile down the road.

  And then they’re in the sunflower field. The old man chooses not to avoid it, can’t see a way around it. Tall stalks fall in the lights of the truck, the blue lights of the sheriff’s cruiser flashing against the windshield, the yellow heads of flowers snapping and falling against the hood of the truck, flying through the side windows. The younger Winston collects the heads of the yellow flowers in his lap, listens to the pops and snaps of the stalks against the fenders, the tires. The flowers reach in the window like arms, like the hands of skeletons. When they come clear of the field, the silence seems to swallow him.

  Ahead, right in front of them, he sees the ditch; they both do, but too late. Their brake lights warn the deputy, who slows in time to avoid it, but the front end of the truck, its wheels spinning in air, smashes into the opposite bank. Winston feels himself falling, feels the thick fingers of his grandfather’s hand against his chest, but it was the seatbelt that saved him, saved his grandfather too. He hears now, seconds later when it seems quiet, after the deputy has switched off his siren, the shatter of the windshield. He sees the broken blue shards on his lap, on his shoes near the floorboard. The yellow heads of sunflowers lie on the floor. The boy believes he’s bleeding to death. He studies his arms, his ankles.

  You cut? says his grandfather.

  I don’t think so.

  His grandfather has a gash on his hand, a small one. There’s a little blood there.

  You ready to run? says his grandfather.

  Winston is still looking for a death wound. Let’s stay here, he says.

  The old man looks through the back window. I got to keep moving, he says. Already, they can see the white beam of the deputy’s flashlight through the back window.

  Come or go, says the old man. He opens his door and kicks off the glass. He moves faster than Winston has ever seen him move.

  Let’s stay here, says Winston. He doesn’t want to touch the glass in his lap.

  I’ll see you again, says the old man. And he’s off, out of the truck. Winston can hear him splash in the creek. The boy thinks of snakes. He watches as the old man’s white head disappears from the flashing blue light. It enters the darkness beyond Winston’s sight.

  The deputy watches the old man go. He calls out for him to stop. He thinks about his training, moves beyond it for a moment. He could plug the old man in the leg: he’s a good shot. It’s not much of a distance. But, he doesn’t even unlatch his holster. He climbs down into the creek, feels the water soak his boots and socks, slips a little in the mud.

  You all right? he says to the boy. He shines the flashlight in the boy’s face, checks for firearms, a knife to the heart. The boy is terrified.

  That your grandfather?

  The boy nods.

  He got a gun on him? Any weapons?

  The boy shakes his head. He won’t hurt nobody.

  He almost killed you, says the deputy.

  Winston doesn’t like the man’s tone. It reminds him of his teachers at school, the way they mix concern with a shake of their heads, the downward turn of their lips. You can do better. This is all right, good even, but you need to concentrate, focus, you know what I mean?

  I don’t, says Winston.

  You don’t what? says the deputy.

  I don’t know.

  All right, says the man. He unclips the latch on his holster. You stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.

  Winston watches the man’s head—black hair—disappear out of the blue lights. The boy picks off the glass with his fingertips, drops the shards on the floorboard. Nicks his finger with the last one, puts the finger in his mouth, tastes the blood. He is sure he has betrayed his grandfather. Doesn’t exactly know how, but is sure. He picks the yellow flowers off after that. When he climbs out of the cab, splashes into the water, crawls up the bank of the ditch on hands and knees, muddying both, he is convinced that the accident, the ride even, is his fault. He watches the blue lights hover across and around the ditch, and he watches for the white and black heads in the creek. Can see neither. A woman in the farmhouse has come out onto the porch. She stands at the railing, arms crossed, looking at her sunflower field, looks at where Winston is looking.

  He sucks at his finger, tastes no blood, wishes he had left with his grandfather. He feels completely alone at the edge of the ditch. Abandoned maybe. Feels like no one—not his grandfather, not the deputy, not his father, not the woman on the porch—will ever return to him. Behind him, he hears the hum of the engine, not from the truck, but from the deputy’s cruiser. When he turns, he sees, in the flash of the blue lights, the keys hanging in the ignition switch.

  The left hook is a short, bent-arm blow, thrown off the left foot, as the boxer turns her body to the right behind the punch. The right cross, a short or long blow, is thrown off the trailing right foot and crosses the opponent’s right arm. The body is turned to the left, with the left arm and hand in the guard position.

  Helen opens the window on the second floor, pops out the screen. She takes her baby brother out onto the rooftop. She likes it up here, believes her brother does too. She looks down at him. He’s wrapped in a sweater and blanket. She rocks him against her shoulder.

  She remembers the coastline from the ferryboat. The waves of the sea breaking against the black rocks, seeming to continue toward the mountains. The mountains seemed as waves themselves, the landscape of the sea the same as land. She’d thought this, had said it to Mrs. Lange, and Mrs. Lange, holding her cards to the tip of her chin, had stared out at the sea, at the Inside Passage. In that moment, a man with a cast on his arm had crossed the deck. It does look like that, the old woman had said. They seem to go on and on.

  Helen remembers this. She hums a tune to her brother, rocks him in rhythm with her thoughts. Sleeping beside Mrs. Lange that night, she’d heard the woman mumble in her sleep. She was sure she’d not misheard. You’re not going to let another man hit you like that. They were alone, no man around. Helen had sipped at the flask of bourbon, her second taste, still bitter and harsh in her throat. She looked down at her cards. Solitaire. Felt the dip and roll of the ship for the first time that day. Heard someone latch a porthole closed. She’d played a card.

  Now, she feels the warmth of the child against her shoulder, feels herself slip on the roof. She presses her feet against the shingles, holds her brother tight against her shoulder. Tomorrow, the trainer: she’s going to break his nose.

  Winston finds it—the sheriff’s cruiser—a lot easier to drive than the tractor. His feet meet the pedals easily. He turns off the radio, grips his hands on the wheel, keeps the tires away from the edge of the ditch. He’s moving faster than the tractor, than on any ride at the carnival. After only a minute—two—he can see the nods and dips of the two h
eads in the stream, the one behind closing the distance.

  Behind him, the older Winston can hear the footfalls, the splashes of the deputy. In his youth, he’d have left the man far behind. Twenty years ago he would have left him behind, had always been a good runner. The ditch reminds him of France, near the Moselle River, of a ditch he’d run through in the war. Artillery in the distance, and German voices behind him. He kept low and kept the pace. He outran them. And later he was shot in the back by another American, a boy—he’d always assumed—who shot at everything. He lay that night in a foxhole. His wound was packed but not sewn. The pain was distant, a dull morphine pleasure. The foxhole was deep and he’d stayed quiet. He was nineteen and watched the snow and the tracers falling from the sky.

  Blue lights above him now in the ditch. He glances behind him. The deputy is closing the distance. The old man hears his grandson’s voice, and up the ditch he goes. He is not without skills, even with his mind failing. He gets into the cruiser. Shuts the door. He puts his seat belt on. He wants to be a good example for the boy.

  The younger Winston takes out the handkerchief; there’s spittle hanging off the old man’s chin and he wipes it away. Carefully. He wants to apologize, for not following, but he can’t quite make the words. It’s a ride, he thinks. This whole thing. He wants it to go on and on. Through the windshield he can see the orange glow in the distance. It’s just over the next hill. They can make the road easy from here. The boy can feel—even as he presses on the pedal, even as the cruiser moves forward, even as he tries to say what he has to say again—the hand of the deputy on his arm, through the window, a vice, like one of his teacher’s at school. The boy presses hard on the pedal, lets go the handkerchief.

  The deputy, his other hand on the rooftop, hesitates, feels the slap of mud against his legs, feels the motion of the cruiser, feels his boots dragged across rocks. He can imagine his head run over in blue lights. He thinks about his baby son, decides, lets go of the boy’s arm. As he slides to the ground, the back tire rolls over the man’s boot, breaking five bones and fracturing two more.